Knife Throwing
“There’s this place on the corner that just opened up, dude,” Ben said. “Took my girlfriend there this weekend. Knife throwing. It’s pretty great.” He leaned against the counter of the break room, gut protruding, dome of a head reflecting the glare of the fluorescent lights. The exuberance in his monologue jarred against the soothing sounds of the refrigerator and the dull drone of the air conditioning. “You pay a fee and they let you hurl knives and axes and stuff at these wooden targets for a half-hour. It was really a lot of fun. Have guys there that coach you a little.”
Jesse stared at his phone, at first just quickly checking the time, but then as a social wall to guard against unwanted conversation. It did not seem to be working, but it was ten in the morning: the perfect time for coffee.
“Next door there’s a bar, too, but you have to pass a sobriety test to do the knife throwing,” Ben laughed. “We had a few IPAs after our fun. It was a blast.”
“That’s nice.” Jesse’s dully murmured affirmation was broken only by his sudden movement toward the coffee maker. “Probably brewed an hour ago,” he said to himself. Ben didn’t acknowledge, but steam wafted off the liquid as he poured it into his mug.
“You’re a pretty cool guy, Jesse,” Ben remarked. The mug was full. “I never see you around with anyone.”
“Huh.” Jesse sipped his coffee and winced. Still too hot.
“Should get out more, man. Hey, tell you what,” Ben pulled himself off the counter, groaning comically as he did so, “we’re thinking of hitting that place up again this Saturday. You should meet us there, it’s real easy. You’d have a blast. You ever throw knives before?”
Jesse smiled, but it was an empty smile and one that Ben was well-acquainted with in the work environment. It did not reach his eyes. Indeed, it did not even reach the upper half of his face. But it was gone quickly, as Jesse sized Ben up with a brief look and nodded, as if absently mulling over some other question in his head.
“Yeah, I can do that. One o’clock?”
“Uh, yeah,” Ben replied, slightly off-guard. “Yeah, one is great. We’ll see you there, dude.”
“Good,” Jesse smiled again. “Great.”
—
“Oh, I guess it’s closed today.”
Ben gazed at the sign on the door. The place didn’t open until four in the afternoon. Beside him, his girlfriend Amy frowned and motioned to the bar next door. “They’re open,” she said. “We could get lunch and a few drinks, since we’re already out.”
Ben scowled at the sign and then looked at Jesse. He gazed expressionlessly at the establishment before returning Ben’s look. “Sound good to you?” Jesse shrugged and motioned toward the bar.
“If you just want a bite to eat and some beer, I’ve got that at my place.”
“Yeah, but we’re right here, man.”
Jesse nodded. “I’m right over there,” he said, and he extended an arm out toward the east. “I walked here. My house is two blocks away.”
“Are you sure?” Ben asked. He looked at Amy, who shrugged.
“A hangout seems nice,” she said.
Jesse started off in the direction he had pointed. “I don’t have any beer, but I’ve got some gin.”
“Gin and tonics sound great,” Amy uttered.
“We’d have to get tonic on the way. I usually drink it straight.”
This struck Ben as particularly psychopathic, but the cloud of unease vanished almost as quickly as it passed over him. “Yeah, that sounds great. There’s a liquor store over here, anyway. We’ll get some beer and tonic there.”
The walk was short, and the afternoon weather mild. Ben filled the silence with a continuation of their experience the previous weekend: how he was coached to hold the knife, the difference between full spin and half spin throwing, when to flick the wrist, how to judge the knife’s balance. “They get stuck pretty far into the wooden targets if you do it right,” he said. Amy, next to him, a mildly heavy-set woman of approximately the same age but, in her own way, cheery, nodded along and offered her own commentary. Jesse said little, but directed them quietly and efficiently to the liquor store and then to his residence.
“This is a nice little place,” Ben said. “You live here alone?”
It was a single-story bungalow with a driveway out front and a moderately sized back yard that extended all the way to the neighboring street. A tall wooden fence had been erected around the sides, and the grass, rich in color, looked freshly mowed. Near the rear of the property, a large oak provided some shade that was mirrored by a smaller oak nearer to the back patio. A portion of a tree stump or cross section of one lay up against the large oak facing the house. It was covered in marks and indentations.
Amy looked around the back yard as Ben set down the case of beer near the patio. Jesse retrieved three lawn chairs that had been stacked up against the house and set them to look out into the yard. “Any pets? You have a dog?” She asked.
“No dogs, no pets,” he replied. “No roommates or girlfriends, either. The fence was put in by the previous owner, and I think he had a couple dogs. That’s why it’s so high.”
“It’s kind of nice,” she said. “A good bit of privacy in the middle of town.”
“Gin?” Jesse asked suddenly. Ben groaned as he leaned over to open the case of beer. Amy smiled and remarked her appreciation. The two were left alone in the yard as Jesse disappeared inside with the tonic water.
“What do you think that stump is for?” Ben asked his girlfriend, motioning to the tree at the far end of the property. Amy shrugged, and Ben approached it with the beer in his hand. “It has marks in it. Nicks. Target, maybe?”
“Yeah,” Jesse had returned with a glass in one hand and a roll of cloth that was double bound with bungee cords in the other. He handed the glass to Amy, who smiled and thanked him, and set the roll down on the concrete of the patio. “You said you wanted to do some knife throwing,” he remarked, and with a swift motion, opened the roll. It was just a double-layering of a beach towel, but inside were a few sets of knives clearly designed and balanced for throwing. They looked well worn.
“That stump over there is the target,” he said, “but we can use anything. Beer cans, paper targets. Just try not to hit the fence.”
“Or the tree,” Ben said, taking another gulp of beer.
“No, the tree would be fine. Trees are quite resilient. In the forest they suffer worse fates than a knife or two. But the fence, well,” Jesse motioned to it, and Ben peered at it for a closer inspection. It was gouged here in places and there with discolored patches where mending had taken place. “The fence is made of a hard wood, but it’s still only a fence.”
Ben considered this, and then nodded thoughtfully. “You do have to throw them pretty hard.”
He returned to the patio and Jesse handed him a set of three knives before retrieving a beer for himself. They were black, mostly, with silver highlights across the edges and points where the finish had been worn down.
“Go ahead,” Jesse said, wiping his mouth with his arm. “You did this last weekend, right? Show me how it’s done.”
Ben shrugged and finished off his beer.
“Should you guys be drinking while doing this?” Amy suddenly asked. “That seems like, I don’t know, not a good practice.”
“It’s fine,” Jesse said. “It’s only a couple of beers.”
Ben flicked the knife around and held it carefully by the blade. The target wasn’t that far away, but he approached to a distance such like the coach from the knife place had advised, extended a foot, and then threw it with a swift overhand toss. The blade whirled through the air and bounced off the stump with a mild ring.
“Ah,” he said. “Sorry, must have misjudged my distance.”
“Won’t hurt the knives any.”
He tried again with the other two with as much success. “Try it again,” Jesse remarked. An empty can sat next to him on the patio, and already, another was in his hand. “Nine tosses and then we switch, how’s that?”
Ben finished the next two sets. He’d managed to get the knives to stick three times before the switch, once in his second set and then twice in his third. “Practice makes perfect,” Jesse said. He’d lined up his empty beer cans in a row beside the chair. Ben gave a lilted smile and shook his head.
“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not,” he said, handing the knives over to Jesse.
“Have another beer,” Jesse grinned, but it was another hollow grin that did not fit with his expression. He walked to about midway in the yard and readied himself. Then he threw. The knives arced through the air without spin and thudded with a loud violence into the stump. One blade flew and he reset himself with fluid, practiced motions that made the next one fly in seconds. His whole set was over within a quarter of a minute’s time.
Ben stared at Jesse after he’d thrown the last of the three knives. Each blade hit near the center of the stump. “Wow, you’re pretty good,” he said. “Amy, look at this! He got all of them on the target. That’s amazing. How’d you learn to throw that way?” Gone were any exterior indications of his shame, replaced quickly with awe.
“Internet,” Jesse said casually. “Used to do this all the time, back when we were all working from home. I’d come out here when we were compiling the Jamestown project for another build and lob a few. Sometimes I’d do it during calls. Needed something to keep my hands active.” He wrenched the first knife out of the stump and put it in his left hand.
“Your knives don’t have a spin to them,” Ben suddenly said.
“It’s part of the technique.” He pulled out the last knife. “You hold it at the balance point and run your index finger along the spine as you throw it. Takes some getting used to and it’s a little different for each blade. You have to pay attention as it leaves your hand.” Jesse handed the knives over to Ben and then slouched in the lawn chair. “Try it,” he said.
“Don’t you get six more throws?”
“It’s fine.”
Ben stared at the knives for a second and then at the stump. He frowned in thought.
“I started only about five feet away from the target, at first,” Jesse said.
A knife clanged against the stump and bounced into the grass. Then another. The last one followed suit.
“That’s hard,” Ben said.
“It’s a somewhat advanced technique, but you’ll get it if you do it enough times.” Jesse’s mouth curved into a smile that didn’t reach his face and he took a drink. “Stand a little closer.”
Ben tried again and received the same result. “Wow,” he said. “Let me see you do it again.”
Amy was barely paying any attention. Her gin and tonic was about halfway down her glass. Jesse took the knives out of his outstretched arm and walked to the edge of the yard with three empty beer cans. He set them each on top of the stump with a few inches of space between them.
“No way,” Ben said.
He walked back to the patio, a distance of about fifteen feet. There, hefting the knives with a relaxed but firm grip, he pushed his left foot forward, turned his hip and let fly the knife in his right hand. A knife reappeared in it as he retrieved one from his left. It flew a second later. The knife in his left flew as he reset his weight, springing out sideways from about waist height. Three sounds of metal pings down range and the cans each fell as the knives flew, sheared open by the blades.
“That’s incredible.” Ben stared at the scene, dumbstruck. “Baby, we should do this at home,” he said.
Amy smirked in response. “You’d never get that good in a million years.”
“All it takes is practice,” Jesse replied. He went over to retrieve the knives. “It’s all I did, really.”
“I’ve got a great idea,” Ben said. He stood up suddenly and drained the rest of the beer in his can. Amy frowned and followed him with her eyes as he lumbered down the yard. “Go ahead and hit this can off of my head,” he smiled.
“That’s a terrible idea,” Amy cried. “Ben, get back here, that’s idiotic.”
“No honey, you saw him. He could take the wings off of a fly at five yards, it’s easy. Oh, here,” he suddenly said, eyes bright, “get your phone out, we’ll record it and put it online!”
“I’m not filming you getting your scalp ripped open or, or worse,” she yelled.
Jesse watched the two have their spat as he flipped one of the knives around his fingers like a drumstick. He said nothing.
“Jesse, I know you won’t do it, but this is foolish,” Amy said, looking his way.
He shrugged. “I could do it,” he said. “It’s not hard.”
“You’d be throwing a knife at my boyfriend’s head!” she cried.
“Not at his head,” he corrected her. The calm resoluteness in his voice only infuriated her more.
“Come on, Jesse!” Ben said from the other end of the yard. “Go for it, I won’t move a muscle!”
Jesse regarded him for a moment. Amy went quiet, eyes wide. “There’s no way you’d actually—”
The knife landed in Ben’s gut, wildly missing the can on top of his head. His grunt was involuntary, but when he looked down and saw the handle of the knife protruding from his lower abdomen, he felt the blood drain from his face.
“Oh no, oh, man, I’m real sorry about this,” Jesse said. His face lacked all expression.
Ben screamed. Amy screamed, too. The can fell off his head and Ben fell to his knees. The pain hadn’t set in yet, only the panic. Blood began to pour out of the wound and soak his shirt. “You, you,” he started, “this—what?”
“Call nine-one-one!” Amy shrieked. She ran to Ben and put a hand on his side. In her other hand was her phone. “It’ll be okay, honey. What were you thinking?! William Tell, target practice,” she furiously muttered invectives under her breath and scowled in Jesse’s direction. Jesse passively observed the scene as it was unfolding.
“This can’t be happening,” Ben cried. He leaned against the upright stump and felt his hands grow wet and red. “It’s my fault,” he yelled. “Oh, oh it hurts. Take it out, I need to take it out.”
“You shouldn’t move it until the paramedics arrive,” Jesse said. His left hand still held a knife, index finger extended along the back of the blade as if poised for an underhand toss. He kept it at his side. “You’ll cause more damage if you try to yank it out, and you’ll probably bleed more.”
“What were you thinking?! Why did you do that?” Amy demanded. She eased Ben into a more upright position against the tree. Blood had soaked the front of his shirt. Her phone carried a dial tone.
“You should try to slow your breathing,” Jesse said.
“I’m going to die!”
“You’re not going to die!” Amy cried.
“You’re not going to die,” Jesse said. “You’ll be uncomfortable for a while, but you’ll be fine afterward. I missed anything vital, though your intestines might have some trouble.”
Ben stared again at the protruding knife handle and the blood all over his clothes. “I can’t believe this is happening. Why did I do that? What was I thinking?”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know, man.”
—
“Doctor said all this pudge could have saved my life,” Ben remarked with a short laugh, but then grimaced and rubbed his gut. “Still hurts to have fun, though.” The coffee maker huffed the last of its steam, announcing that it had finished its exercise. Ben moved to retrieve the pot.
“That will go away after a couple weeks,” Jesse assured him. He held out his mug, and Ben filled it after his own. “You’ll probably have a scar, but it’ll only make you look cooler.”
Ben took that as a joke. “Yeah, the knife missed my vitals. I’m amazed, actually. I figured a knife wound would be worse.”
Jesse sipped his coffee and winced. Still too hot. “If it was thrown harder, it would have done a lot more damage. But I wouldn’t do that to you, man.” His eyes held no expression as he gazed at his phone.
“Just a little off the side, as a joke?” Ben chuckled. The ends of Jesse’s mouth curved into the hint of a grin, but it was another strange, ghostly expression that was more unnerving than it was endearing.
Ben let out a deep chuckle again, and again winced and rubbed his gut. He leaned against the counter, and he let a low groan escape him as his weight flexed around. Jesse stood immobile, as if a block of marble had been chipped away into a form of his likeness, coffee in hand eyes unmoving, head bowed to view the little digital screen of his phone. Although he moved the mug to his lips slowly, the motion interrupted his bleak stillness such that it made Ben twitch with a start.
“So uh,” Ben suddenly began, uncomfortable. “How did you, you know? How’d you miss?” Only the hum of the refrigerator, and distantly, the central air of the building seemed to come between them.
Jesse shrugged and stared at his phone’s lock screen. It read out the time. Ten in the morning, the perfect time for coffee.
Very subtly, he shook his head. “Sometimes, these things just happen.”
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